Little Agnes and the Ghosts of Kelpie Wharf

by Stella Drexler

villagers. “Don't kill them! Don't kill them! They are your friends and loved ones! It isn't their fault a mad scientists transmuted them into legendary monsters in his misguided ambition to take over the world! It's all of a piece! This isn't the way civilised people behave, you mad, savage imbeciles!”

  It was as though her supplications fell on deaf ears. She could not imagine why. The villagers kept right on fighting, and the monsters kept right on rampaging.

  “Stop! Stop!” She found Luther in the madness, his mouth twisted in a primal snarl as he leapt upon a giggling goblin, raising a spear over his head. “Luther, you must get a hold of yourself!”

  They were all behaving very childishly and very unreasonably. No one seemed interested in her very sensible explanation. She sighed deeply. Vic lifted his shoulders smugly. She glared at him.

  “Well, reasoning with them is right out.” She fumbled for her belt and found the small, shining metal sphere she'd tucked away for just such an occasion but was most disappointed to be parted with; she had been hoping to save it for a special occasion, such as one of her papa's more boring parties where the most prominent scientists of the day were standing around eating cheese, drinking port and droning on as they tried to one-up each other for the most impressive innovation of the season.

  She raced into the centre of town, where the expo had been disrupted by the arrival of three score or more hideous, blood-thirsty monsters. The booths and displays had been upturned and lay trampled beneath dozens of large, hairy behemoth feet. She yanked her goggles down over her eyes and slapped her trusty mufflers over her ears. Then she tossed the sphere down onto the ground with all her might, right in the very heart of the scrimmage.

  Vic clapped his hands over his ears as a boom so loud it was nearly inaudible rippled through the shanty town in waves of concussing sound. The monsters and maddened villagers alike dropped instantly where they stood in a confusion of human and mutated limbs. Agnes sighed in the sudden quiet that engulfed them. Then she giggled. The concussion grenade was quite fun, really. She ought to nick more from her papa's store of interesting inventions or at least lay hands upon his designs. She was certain she could improve the range of the clever little device with a bit of tinkering and reckless experimentation that could, if luck was with her, potentially result in permanent damage to the dreadful neighbours' youngest, ill-mannered son...

  Vic's mouth turned down in dread. “Crowley.”

  Agnes sighed. “I know, I know. He'll be very cross when he comes to, and we'll have to explain everything. Anyway, no sense in worrying about it now. We have to sort out how to swap those sailors back--”

  “No. Crowley.” Vic lifted a hand to point over her shoulder.

  With a sense of impending doom, Agnes turned slowly on her heel. Dr Crowley, his hands propped on his hips, glowered imperiously down at her in the midst of the devastation. “Agnes...” He did not bark or snap or shout, but his low, dangerous tone was quite indicative of the intensity of his disapproval. His voice was soft when he spoke. “What did I tell you about dropping concussion bombs in small villages?”

  She didn't meet his eyes. She scuffed her toe on the ground. “I don't know. I don't remember you telling me anything about that--”

  “Agnes! We had this discussion not two months ago. Don't pretend you don't remember it. I remember quite clearly that I demanded you return all the concussion bombs you stole from me the last time. Do you expect me to believe you simply forgot about this one?”

  “No, I--” Her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Sorry, Papa.”

  “You will be sorry when I get through with you.”

  She lifted her eyes to scowl at him. “How did you escape it, anyway?”

  “Never leave home without your protective film and preventative accoutrements.” He rolled his eyes and yanked a flesh coloured plug from inside his ear. He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “After the last time, I thought it best to be prepared. I expected something like this. You are in big trouble, young lady.”

  “But I can explain! I had no choice, Papa! I was helping stop the villagers from killing their loved ones who've been transmuted into monsters by a mad, unscrupulous scientist! I was helping!”

  “Helping,” he repeated, looking around at the men and beasts scattered at their feet. “Transmuted into monsters, you say?” He bent to examine an Eachy. “I see.” He straightened to look at her. “Would you care to explain how you came across these mutant monsters and how exactly they ended up rampaging through town?”

  “Oh, yes!” She launched into an explanation of wandering into the tavern, in which she'd learned of the Kelpie Wharf, and of the mysterious ghost ships arriving without their crews. Dr Crowley's expression did not change, but his eyes flickered as she described their discovery of Dr Antonin's ostensibly serene island, their scuffle with Spring-Heeled Jack in the forest, then the mob they'd encountered in the antechamber of Antonin's underground monster-making lair. He did not appear to be impressed, even as she detailed her impressive victory over the legendary terrors of Europe and beyond and her defeat of their barmy, misguided Maker.

  He pursed his lips. “Mm,” he murmured disdainfully. “Another world-domination scheme, then?”

  “I think he was mostly just lonely. Anyway, he has some very brilliant devices. I think we could use his transfiguration dingus to change the monsters back into sailors.”

  “Sailors?”

  “Oh, yes, didn't I mention? All these monsters, they're the missing sailors from the Aqueous Spectre and the Wraith Alloy.” She rolled her eyes with equal disdain. “Or didn't you sort that out on your own?”

  “Right. And you didn't think to come find me before you went dashing off on some mad chase to an abandoned island after the missing sailors?”

  She lifted her chin. “I didn't need your help. I managed quite well. I did, after all, defeat a mob.”

  He sighed. “I'll just have a closer look at them.”

  Agnes hovered impatiently over her papa as he examined a revenant nearby. He surged to his feet, nodding decisively. “I think we'd best get them back to the lab.”

  “What? After all the trouble I went through to get them here?”

  “Helped,” Vic added, but they ignored him.

  “Can't we just bring the transmuter here?”

  “That would be ill-advised. We can't be certain of its functionality outside a laboratory environment. You oughtn't to have brought them here.” He lifted an eyebrow. “How did you get them all here, anyway?”

  She beamed smugly. “A matter transporter.”

  He looked quite keen on this idea. “Really? It worked?”

  “Oh, aye. It was very exciting. I got to ride on it. We could use it again, I suppose.”

  He peered around at the heaps of monsters and their kin. “Right. We'll have to get them all back to the point of entry. Do you have the remote for the device?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “No. If there was one, Dr Antonin did not bother to share.”

  “Hardly unexpected. We'll have to return to the island, then, to trigger the device from its source.”

  She nodded eagerly, but her expression transformed into one of dismay as he crossed his arms over his chest and glowered pointedly at her. “What?”

  “I suggest you begin gathering up these beasts if we intend to put them right before your concussion wears off.”

  “What? But—by myself?”

  “Yes.”

  She stomped her foot. “But it's so hard! They're so heavy!”

  “You ought to have thought of that before you dragged them all here. You will have plenty of time to consider the consequence of your rash and foolish lack of judgment. I expected better of the clever fruit of my loins. Now drag these bodies into a pile on the wharf.”

  She grunted in frustration, seizing the arms of an Eachy. She glared up at her papa. “You could help, you know.”

  “Oh, yes. I could. I even have a pocket transporter that could zap them all qui
te quickly to the wharf, but I think this is the best punishment for your behaviour.”

  “I'm not the one who made the monsters! I was trying to help!” She pouted. “I'm only twelve. I don't always make the right choices. Aren't parents supposed to help their children learn from their mistakes?”

  “Oh, indeed they are, and that is exactly what I am doing. Get to it. No more complaints.”

  He watched, his hands propped on his hips, as his daughter and her re-animated clockwork companion dragged the bodies back to the pier, huffing and puffing with their exertion. It was slow, tiring work, but it was done eventually, and Dr Crowley nodded in satisfaction.

  “Now what?” Agnes asked breathlessly.

  “Where is this island of yours, then?”

  “Not far. About a kilometre out to sea.”

  “Excellent! I'll drive.” He lifted a finger to point at the walking cadaver. “You wait here, Vic, and feed the monsters into the transporter.”

  Vic knew better than to make a snide remark to the revered doctor, for his continued existence relied upon the man's indulgence. He nodded stiffly.

  Agnes followed her father to his shiny gold hot air balloon and watched as he prepared the vessel for the short flight, igniting the ballonet and inflating the envelop with an ease that came from much practise. He hoisted her into the gondola, and the airship lifted smoothly off the ground.

  Agnes glared sourly down at the gentle waves as they floated swiftly across the water towards Antonin's island. Dr Crowley alighted